Hold
by blueowls
Summary: Brittany x Santana. /Brittany ticks the names off on her fingers as she goes through them in her head, and by the end of the count, she's got about a third of the school down./


**Author Note: **Trying to work through writer's block.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Hold**

Brittany ticks the names off on her fingers as she goes through them in her head, and by the end of the count, she's got about a third of the school down. Santana's sitting beside her, slouching in one of the glee chairs with her eyes closed in exhaustion as they wait yet again for Mr. Schuester to come into the room, go up to the whiteboard, and scrawl a theme on it before they start.

Bordering on late as usual, Puck filters into the glee room next, hands jammed in his pockets as Quinn follows less than a step behind him, the argument they seemed to be having before coming in dropping to a harsh whisper on Quinn's part. Puck ignores her, looking around the room for somewhere to sit as far away from her as possible, and so Brittany wriggles her fingers at him in a wave, smiling. He looks at her speculatively, one eyebrow arching in confusion, and turns his back on Quinn as he moves to take the single empty seat Brittany points out next to her. Brittany sees Quinn's mouth form an 'o' in surprise before snapping shut, and Quinn stalks as proudly as she can over to the other side of the room to sit next to an uneasy Tina.

"Thanks," Puck grunts as he flops into the seat next to her, and Brittany sees Santana sit up with a start out of the corner of her eye as Puck's chair squeaks loudly against the tile. Brittany focuses on Puck, watching as he sits back, tilting the chair as he braces his feet against the floor, and sighs, one hand reaching up to run over what used to be his mohawk out of pure habit.

Santana's tapping at her shoulder, trying to get her attention, but Brittany reaches out and lays a hand on Puck's knee, moving her chair a little closer. He looks up, a vaguely surprised look on his face, and uncharacteristically, he says nothing. No half-serious wheedling to get her to agree to a threeway, no sleazy wink and a dirty grin. Nothing. Puck just seems to think for a second before he gets up, sighing as he ambles toward the door to the confusion of those in the room watching.

"What are you doing?" Santana's whispering in her ear, and Brittany has to try to ignore that Santana's pressing up against her side, warm and soft as she lays a hand on her shoulder. But Brittany stands anyway, feeling Santana's hand slide down her arm with the motion as Puck walks out the door, and then Santana's taking the opportunity while it's there just barely and threading their fingers together.

Brittany watches the door close after Puck, and then turns toward Santana as she leans down to whisper in her ear. With her free hand, Brittany reaches up, brushing back the bangs that are sliding in front of her eyes as she feels Santana squeeze, fingers tightening around hers and trying to keep her there.

"Bathroom," Brittany whispers, and she slips her hand out of Santana's before brushing her lips against Santana's cheek. Anyone else would mistake it as as tilt of the head or more whispering, but Santana goes still, hands falling to her lap, and Brittany follows Puck out of the glee room.

By the time they get back, Mr. Schuester looks at the clock and then at them disappointedly, and Rachel looks like she's about to lecture them about the importance of making it to practice on time. Puck mutters something about Ms. Sylvester needing to see them and trudges over to a seat near Quinn, who ignores him and continues to glare straight ahead, while Brittany takes her seat next to Santana. As Mr. Schuester shakes his head and begins to pass their newest sheet music out, Santana slides her chair closer, their thighs pressing together as she reaches out and takes Brittany's hand. She doesn't let go for the rest of rehearsal.

* * *

Brittany watches from the doorway to the kitchen as Santana tries to angle a spoonful of baby food into their daughter's mouth. Half of it ends up on the bib and the other half ends up dribbling down the baby's chin, but Santana smiles anyway, careless and easy as she wipes the mess away with a corner of the bib and tries again. It's something Brittany doesn't see often anymore—because of the stress of work, because of trying to raise a baby right, because of her—and that doesn't escape her.

"You need help cleaning up or anything?" she asks, and she watches as Santana looks up, the spoon halfway to their daughter's open waiting mouth. Santana looks around, but the counter's clean and the kitchen table's cleared, all the dishes already piled in the sink for whenever they actually feel like washing them.

"I've got it," Santana says before turning back to their daughter. There's a moment of silence before Santana raises the spoonful of baby food again and starts to hum, mimicking the sound of a motor as she says something to the baby about opening up for the airplane, so Brittany turns around and walks away.

Later, when the baby's finally fallen asleep and Santana's sitting in bed, reading with a cheap pair of glasses balanced on her nose and her legs curled up against herself, Brittany pauses in the threshold of the front door, jiggling her keys in her hand as she pulls her jacket closer around herself.

"I'm leaving," she shouts up the stairs, and then she waits like she always does. But this time, it's a full minute before Santana answers.

"Okay."

It's the same thing Brittany hears every time. But tonight, Santana's voice has the barest hint of a rasp to it, and she feels a momentary stab of guilt before stepping outside and locking the door behind her.

She comes home earlier than usual because the guilt is gone but Santana's quiet 'okay' repeating itself in her head isn't, shedding clothing on her way up the stairs and to their bedroom, and she slips into bed, hearing Santana stir slowly on her side as the mattress dips with the extra weight. Like clockwork, there's some sighing and moving around before Santana ends up in her arms, breathing softly against her shoulder, and Brittany feels the apology pressing against her chest as she drops a kiss to the top of Santana's head.

"I love you," Santana murmurs against her skin before shifting closer. The apology presses harder every time Santana says she loves her because Brittany knows that Santana actually means it—_still_ means it despite everything, although God only knows why.

Santana's hand settles on the curve of her hip and there are lips brushing against the underside of her jaw, light and hesitant, and Brittany doesn't push her away like she does some nights. More than once, the apology has been on the tip of her tongue, but it never comes out. It never has and probably never will because as nice of a gesture it would be, Brittany can't bring herself to apologize to Santana because she wouldn't actually mean it.

* * *

She always comes back to Santana, and Santana seems to realize she has that, at least. It's better than nothing. So Santana tries to hold onto her more tightly, and sometimes, Brittany lets her.


End file.
